


Descendants

by hauntedpoem



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Children, Dreams, Gen, Reality, creepy rituals, little adult demi-gods, maiarin musings, not a crackfic, parental narcissism, that is a possibility- theoretically speaking, the coolest hippie names out there for Sauron's triplets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Sauron has a strange dream, or so he thinks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks! My sleep addled brain played with this idea a bit too much and this was the result.  
> Mairon discovers he has children. (how is that even possible?)

Mairon. Sauron. Gorthaur the cruel. Annatar.  
He had many other names besides those but now he was a fugitive, a stain. His evil hand has grown long, indeed. And it continued to twist and deform Arda, blackened by the blood he spilt and the trust he has betrayed.  
In wolf form, he ran. He jumped and evaded the obstacles with ease.

  
Until they decided to hunt him down with bows and arrows and sharpened spears bearing the poison of the first stars.  
In his spirit form, he let himself be blown by the wind but Arda's gravity pulled him down at the most inopportune moment.

  
The eternal particles of his fire spirit, although mangled and degenerated by Melkor, always embraced a corporeal form. He scared many in that body, not unlike a balrog did but close enough.  
His eyes sparkled, the rarest tourmaline while his whole body was covered in crackings of lava and ash. His hair was a whip of molten gold. He burned too bright, he was too easy to notice and it was a pain to walk like this through the woods.

  
At his presence, nature stopped, the nightingales became mute and the trees moved drowsily with sleeping leaves. Only the river was flowing in stark contrast to the tense silence. Animals scurried away from his way. A deer crossed him and in its self-preserving foolishness ran straight into a lethal spear.

  
He was a fool to think the silence was in any deference towards him. After all, he was a spirit of fire under no one's command, not one of Yavanna's maiar.  
They were three and their names were as strange as the lands he stepped foot on. They were Moon-Mist, Night-Song and Spring-Star. Two females and a male. His first thought when he saw Spring-Star still poised in a hunter's stance waiting for the deer's last breath, was to kill them all, get rid of them.

  
Moon-Mist waited above, in the treetops, her silver hair and bright eyes too easy to notice on the ground and her black haired sister, Night-Song was right behind him, holding a large pot covered in cloth - for the meat perhaps, and a hunting dagger to skin the animal.  
"Father?" It was Moon-Mist who called him that, in the sharp Valarin language. The boy lifted the prey on his shoulders and turned towards him, smiling. "Father, we've been waiting for you!", he said, in the same impossible Valarin that he despised.

  
Now he noticed their eyes: all sparks of different colours. The boy was probably the most unusual, his eyes gleaming like garnets, something he's never seen before. They all shone with the preternatural light of the immortal and they all bore the same thrum of the power of the flame.  
Night-Song was the only quiet one and he recognised in her his own yellow eyes. Her skin was radiant as if she had not blood and bones beneath it but lava, lazily moving behind the creamy, silky skin.

  
She looked at her brothers as if in mind speak. Dressed in the white linen robe she was tall and austere, like a priestess.

  
"I do not think adar likes that language any more than I do," she whispered to her brothers but it was meant to be heard by him.  
What were the chances? He's never seen these beings before and the fact that they were calling for him with the sort of filial attachment he's only seen in elves, deeply disturbed him. Surely, it couldn't be? He'd lain with first borns and second borns before but he never intended on begetting children with them Their flesh was too weak, too easy to tear after he finished with them.  
Did one escape his post-amorous treatments? One must have, for he recognised his flame in the children, now adults.

  
His children.  
It was such a strange thought but they were lovely indeed. Not lovely in the killing and tearing and maiming sort of way but lovely enough to pet their fire hair and delight in the colours of their sparkling eyes.

  
He imagined working in the forge with them, and they, being the perfect apprentices would completely understand him. Of course, they would, he thought, they were but particles of him.  
But what about the vessel they came from? They seemed too well-educated to have been living by themselves, or maybe their sign of education and intelligence was proof enough that maiarin blood would suffice even in the absence of a primary caretaker.

  
Sauron doubted that. There must have been a mother, somewhere, if only he could recall those nights of deranged debauchery that blended into one long episode of blood and screams.  
They invited him to follow and the son called him Adar-Black-Hand. It made him snigger to see such innocence in his kindred spirits. He could imagine Gothmog's or his balrogs apprentices' jealousy at their skill, he could already see them together while deep in conversation about politics and philosophy.

  
He imagined Spring-Star's skill as a hunter surpassing that of Orome and his maiar and judging by the intricate weaves of Silver-Mist's garments, she would surpass Vaire in her art and Nessa in her joy. Mysterious and deeply intelligent, Night-Song would be above Melian or the queen of the Valar. She would be beautiful but ruthless, not a delicate flower to protect in hands of fire but the flame herself.

  
They led him to a cabin, neatly built and skillfully decorated with Arda's miracles. Sat upon pelts and cushions, he waited as the children made themselves useful. Night-Song disappeared only to come back with a piece of crockery filled with the deer's blood and Silver-Mist grinned at him while putting her dagger to use. The boy ground seeds with a pestle and made a mixture of boiling water and leaves. Medicine.

  
Night-Song held the bowl in front of her brothers and with a hand, she baptised their foreheads with a finger dipped in the viscous blood.  
They spoke something in a language he didn't understand and then turned towards him. They dipped their fingers and smeared his forehead with blood.

  
The boy looked at him with flashing garnet eyes and smiled showing bright teeth. "Adar," he said and something about his joyful attitude unsettled Sauron. he noticed Night-Song's flashing gaze towards her brother and right behind him, laying her small, pale hands, was Silver-Mist.  
"Drink," commanded Night-Song and her yellow eyes, so alike his bored deeply into his spirit. He drank, leaving the metallic flavor drench his gullet, not at all unpleasantly.

  
Sauron woke with a shiver. It was unlike him to feel the pull of the elements. He was in a clearing surrounded by white fog and the twisted roots of ancient trees. His body took the more common form that Annatar used to wear, as if by habit. He did not complain. Ages on Arda made it more difficult to wonder about in his maiarin fana.

  
He closed his eyes as if remembering the night before. Only flashes and splinters of memory betrayed his exhaustion.

  
"Impossible," he chortled. What strange imaginings he had of late! The mere thought of children made him scrunch his face in disgust.

  
He woke, and walked naked, missing his charred clothes that his fana conjured. Walking leisurely, he sniffed for prey but decided against his werewolf form. Too conspicuous for this clearing. Barehanded, he reached for a rabbit and devoured it whole, temporarily painting his skin red, then decided to bathe in the river.

  
Strange, his reflection showed him with three dots of blood on the forehead. Just like in the dream. How silly, he thought, seeing his whole body coated in the animal's blood.  
Sauron emerged clean and pure from the river. On a low branch, a white woven robe fluttered in the wind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> That would have stroked his ego big time...


End file.
